As a little girl I used to daydream about my real father coming on a white horse to rescue me.
Bill Astor knew these papers were missing. Stephen showed his hand in October.
Discretion is the polite word for hypocrisy.
Even a criminal has the right to a new life, but they made sure I did not have that. They just didn't stop calling me a prostitute for ever and ever and ever and ever.
He had a way with him. Before you had a chance to say no, he was there and done. That only happened to me once before, with a duke, who literally swept me off my feet, and before I knew what was happening, we'd done it. Another terrible mistake.
He's 85 and he's met another woman. Still, at 85, why ever not?
However I dress it up, I was a spy and I am not proud of it.
I don't know if he was the fourth man or the fifth, but he was certainly in the top 10.
I enjoyed sex and indulged in it when I fancied the men.
I have always been free with my love - it is my nature. I am easily captivated by men and they have always been attracted to me.
I have survived and possibly I should not hope for more than that.
I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust enough.
I sold up and moved down to the sea, lived on the DSS for a while, but I hated that-never want to go back to that.
I took on the sins of everybody, of a generation, really.
I went out every single night so I was never alone with my stepfather. At 12, I stopped going on holiday with them. The times I was alone with him I always made sure I was all covered up.
I won't say I didn't like it at the time, the sex, that is, because I wouldn't have let him do it at all if that had been the case.
I'm terrified of men these days. If someone asked me out now, I don't know what I'd say, how I'd react. But I couldn't go through with it, not at all. I suppose I've been terrified of them all along.
If I don't tell it all now, the story in the history books will always be imperfect and that would be wrong.
It's been a misery for me, living with Christine Keeler.
Men, all men, were always trying to get hold of me, you know.
My mother used to go out on her own, and I used to have to keep a look out for my stepfather coming home.
No one else knows the whole story. I was there. I lived through it.
No one was ever, not for one night, going to put my son through anything that I had to suffer, make him be afraid or lie awake.
Nothing ever happened, but I slept with a knife under my pillow and never spoke to him, from the age of about 13 until I left home four years later.
One way of reading my life is that I have been in constant search for a father.
The fathers, if they got me alone, would try to kiss and fondle me. I hated it.
They came and bound me up and I had awful stretch marks. I hated my breasts after that.
They wanted to hear about the sex, of course. But not the rest; no one wanted to hear the rest.
Towards the end of his life he told his daughter that his worst mistake in the whole business was calling me a tart.
We knew we were talking about spies. I knew he knew I knew. I was digging my own grave.
We lived a very quiet life. We'd never go out. We once went to that sex orgy, and I didn't like it, and that was that. And there were maybe one or two cocktail parties.
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